


kissing fire

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Category: Mr Robot
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: I know this is bad for me. Like I knew morphine was bad for me. Like I knew Shayla could have been bad for me. The problem isn't that I don't know about the severity of the situation I'm in.The problem is that I really don't care.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Go easy on me, it's my first Mr Robot fic.

 

Bonsoir, Elliot, says the blue-eyed European man who approached me at my desk, and I feel the slight sense - the prickling at where the end of my hair meets the nape of my neck - that everything, from now, will change.

 

* * *

 

 

He touches me, and it sends tingles rushing down my spine. I don't like touch - don't like how it's so easy to reach out, so easy to push and take away - and I don't like sitting in the bathroom with the door locked, scrubbing away at my skin till it's red and blotchy, but if Tyrell Wellick were to touch me where it hurts, now, I'm not sure how fast I would push him away. 

I swallow and he takes back his hand. It's not in fear. It's not in consideration. It's more whim than anything: Tyrell Wellick is a man wearing a mask, a kitty cat behind those porcelain fangs, and I know better than to fall for the ruse he's set for everyone he meets. That he's in control. 

'And when that happens,' He says, continuing his recruitment speech - and I watch him light the match: the room is ablaze, though no one else can see it. 'I want you to be where you belong. Here, with me.'

My skin aches where he put his hand, crawls with a warmth that terrifies me. I don't need. I don't ever need, not like this. I don't reach for it: he's trained to pick up every small detail. Every nervous tic. I look at him, instead, and I nearly cave in to the fire behind his eyes. Blue, blue eyes, so pale they're almost grey.

'I think I'm happy where I am.'

 

* * *

 

I know I'm crazy. I just don't have a name for it, yet.

I tuck away the rest of the pills. I'm numb. My breathing has slowed: it's started to set in. I close my eyes and try to breathe. It's been a long day: Gideon knows something's up. It's only a matter of time before the rest of my perfect little world falls to pieces at my feet. I clench my fists: I won't allow that to happen. I need to save myself. Save the world. Make a difference before it's too late.

Do I bore you? Does spectating my life bore you? I'm not a very interesting person. If it weren't for fsociety, I think I'd be nothing more than ordinary. 

Ordinary is a nice word. It's peaceful, in a way. If only I could be ordinary. Where would I be? Med student Elliot Alderson? Walking the streets with glasses on my nose and head down to stare at my cellphone, on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or whatever people use these days. I don't think I'd like that. But then again, I don't think there would be a me existing in a world with that Elliot Alderson, anyway.

The phone rings. 

Somehow, I know who it is.

 

* * *

 

 

In this reality I can kiss him as many times as I want and I won't have to wash my mouth out with hot suds and lysol afterwards. In this reality he kisses back, clenching his hands in the knot of my hair. Pulling me towards him, drinking me in like I'm the only oxygen left in the room. In this reality Tyrell Wellick wants me, and in this reality I live. 

He yanks me forward till our teeth knock. We tumble onto the bedspread, a tangle of limbs, nothing but bodies between us. In my head I say

Please stop

and in my head I'm screaming so hard for him to go on.

His hands roam, fingers finding the insides of my clothes, touching like my body is a shrine offered up to him. I bite down on a groan as he lifts my hoodie off of my shoulders. I feel naked, exposed.  _Teach me how to breathe when you're kissing fire._

The mask slips in this reality. Tyrell may fuck like he's angry at me, all the pent up emotion thrusting into my body along with a string of curses that bubble out of us both. I twist the sheets in my hand, muffled by the comforter. He grabs me by the hair, pulls me backwards, rough and sloppy and beautiful, and I go, compliant. Tyrell needs this illusion. That he's in control. That he has control. He needs to be hoodwinked, and I am more than happy to let him pretend, so long as he goes on touching me.

He comes, messy and explosive, and I stutter out what sounds like the beginning of the Lord's prayer, fall facefirst onto the bedspread again. I feel him moving, know he's moving. I don't know what he wants. I don't know what I want.

Then he's kissing me again and my lungs are on fire.

I want to tell him so many things as his lips close around my cock and start moving. I want to tell him that one, the mask doesn't need to be here. I know the Tyrell Wellick that cries behind closed doors and who has nightmares so bad sometimes he wakes up in a cold sweat. I know the Tyrell Wellick that dreams of something bigger than what he has. I want to tell him that he's ruining me, he's ruining both of us. I want to tell him that he has a wife and a baby and we need to stop this before one of us gets hurt. I want to tell him that I've never met someone like him before: someone putty in my hands when he could have been so aggressive only moments before. I want to tell him that I'm addicted to him, now, and the fire inside of him has spread to me.

I don't tell him anything. I climax and he swallows, Adam's Apple bobbing in a way that should be lewd but isn't. He climbs over me, and for a moment I think he's snapped: for a moment I think about his hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing...I should be repulsed by it. I'm not. Is there something wrong with me?

'Stop it,' He says, and I look back to him. He looks ravished. I kiss him again, and catch his gasp between the crashing of our lips. I'm an asthmatic that's inhaling smoke, and he's so bad for me.

'Stop what?' 

He arches back and moans as I press my lips to his neck. There's something so powerful about this. Like he's offering himself up to me. I suck till the skin is a purplish blue and pull away, trying to breathe. 

I want to save myself.

I want to save the world, my world, the idle world that means so much to me.

I want to save The world, mY woRld, thE idLe worLd that means so much to me.

I want to save Tyrell.

 

* * *

 

I'm hitting the keys, trying to save something I don't care about. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. I long to tear off the skin I'm wearing: I want to be as open to the world as I am to you. Gideon is distraught, flying about like a bird with its tail caught on fire. I know how much Allsafe means to him. As much as fsociety means to me. That's why I'm even trying at all: because Gideon is a good, honest man, and I'm a horrible one.  

(Someday I look back to this. After the good, honest man is dead and I am free to roam.)

I can't save something that's past dying. I'm no Asclepius. All I can do is prolong the hopefulness, the flickers of  _oh, God, please_ he may keep in that good, honest heart of his.

Mr Robot is in my head. Under my skin. I try to get rid of him. I scrub at my hands till the skin peels. I break mirrors, get high, try to disconnect. I am Mr Robot. Mr Robot is me. But maybe if I didn't have all this, my computers, my access to databases much too dangerous to allow a dead man living in my head to touch, my consciousness, I could stop him from doing worse.

I don't know where Tyrell is. I need him. Need his hands on my skin, burning, burning. Need his mouth on mine and clever hands touching and his whispering sins into my ears where they're pressed to his lips. I need him and the comfort of his weight settled against me, the little sounds he make when I arch to meet him. 

I know he's a murderer. I know I said too much to him.

Mr Robot knows it, too.

(I'm scared he'll hurt him. I'll afraid he'll hurt him like he hurt Gideon -

apple peeler slicing over his throat

\- and I don't know how I will stop him if he does.)

 

* * *

 

His voice rasps out from the phone and I nearly sink. 

'Bonsoir, Elliot.'

I missed him. I can't say that. I need to know where he is. I need to know what happened that night: that hole in my memory, gaping. I voice my concerns, and he smirks. I know he's smirking because I know him. I know Tyrell.

(Do I? Do I know Tyrell? Do I know Tyrell or does he know Tyrell? Is there a difference?)

'Can't say. Not...right now.'

It's a destructive spiral we're building. With every word he's destroying another part of the infrastructure I covet as part of me. My perfect little barrier between me and the rest of the world.

 

* * *

 

 

I kiss him, and he stops breathing.

In this reality we don't have to stop for anything. His hands find my hair. He lingers for a bit, runs his fingers through the coarse strands, and kisses my open mouth till I'm gasping. Tyrell is my drug. Tyrell is my addiction. 

Mr Robot watches us from my desk, disdainful. I flip him the finger and crash into Tyrell again.

We turn over and he straddles me, cheeks flushed. I'm surprised: I don't know what to do when he takes me in. He always tops. He always likes to be in control. He tips his head back, whimpering, and I roll my hips -

and  _oh god if that doesn't strike a chord with him, doesn't make him whine like a bitch in heat_

\- he touches me like I'm broken glass and he's so keen on getting hurt. Kisses me like I'm smoke and fire. Fucks me and is fucked like we are two matches burning each other out, slowly, one flicker at a time. 

When we're finished, he has a drag from a cigarette and sprawls over the bed beside me. Mr Robot is still there. He looks at me, and I don't know what that is in his eyes.

He's not taking him from me, not like everything else.

Tyrell looks to me, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, and I kiss him. The cigarette gets caught between our teeth, but we fumble round it alright. His lips taste like nicotine and smoke.

I know this is bad for me. Like I knew morphine was bad for me. Like I knew Shayla could have been bad for me. The problem isn't that I don't know about the severity of the situation I'm in.

The problem is that I really don't care.

I'll protect him, if I have to.

We fall asleep to darkness, limbs wrapped tightly around each other -

two souls lost in a dimension that neither wants nor reaches for us

\- and by morning, he is gone, leaving only cigarette ash and the scent of smoke in his wake.

But I suppose that's what you get when you try to kiss fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @smol_asiansatan on Instagram and @Theswiftone27 on Tumblr. Send me prompts, too! Thanks for reading.


End file.
